The Ocean In My Blood

I must learn to master the raging currents if I want to sail, I was made to.

It’s in my Sangre. By the way, that means blood.

My great grandfather was a fisherman, hypnotized and swallowed in Oshun of the Honduran coast.

As he swam deeper into her, they swam, producing a fish school of four, finding their way in the Ocean of life,

Oshun carried them, them like the weight of love, crushing on her shoulders, teaching them to master the crashing waves alone.

The teacher she taught them how to swim when my abuelito drowned. My abuelita taught her four children, three boys, and one girl, who taught their children, who taught me, to love, live, and explore the rivers, the streams, and creeks of the afro-latin life.

The scratching grains of sand stick to my skin, while the sun rays beat against my melanin like rhythms of our ancestor’s drums. The boom, tap, tap, boom, tap, tap guides my feet down the path of destiny. I am met with a dance of waves. The ocean greets me. The bubbles splash and kiss my feet. I hear my abuelito’s voice in the wind.